The Prison Barge – Part 2: Dock

The journey lasted a night and a thousand light-years. She came to him at every watch, in the red light, and inspected the cell and its occupant, her gloved hands behind her back. She made him stand at attention against the wall. She made him recite the Articles of Transit, a long list of absurd rules, each delivered with the straight face of a flight manual. She corrected him with a tap on the bulkhead and a murmured no. She made him kneel on the cold deck and wait, silent, for a full half hour, while she sat in the corridor with a book and did not look at him once. It was strict, cold and wonderfully controlled, and under it ran a long tender thread.

Every watch: "Does the prisoner wish to continue?" "Yes, Commander." "Say it clearly." "I do. Thank you."

"The Commander does not require thanks." But the speaker crackled with a smile.

At three the corridor lights shifted from red to a warm amber.

"Dock," said Aurelia, softly.

It was her word, and she used it for them both. The gloves came off. The tunic collar came undone. She opened the cell door herself, came in and sat on the narrow bunk, in her rumpled uniform, and pulled a blanket from the shelf round them both.

"How are you?"

"Delivered," said Jonah, laughing damply. "To the right planet."

"You were an extraordinary prisoner." She kissed his forehead. "The best I've ever transported."

"Is there a release date?"

"The sentence is thirty years." She smiled. "I'm told that, with good behaviour, I can arrange a weekly parole."

"I'll be very good," said Jonah.

"You'll be very quiet," said Aurelia, "which is rather more difficult."

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